I don’t know what about me or my personality screams “ABROAD.” Or maybe it’s just a normal thing in Nigeria, where everyone seems to have JAPA or relocation plans. But if I had a penny for every time someone asked, “When are you relocating?” I’d be a billionaire by now.
Why relocation? Every time the topic comes up, my answer is always a question in return: “Why should I relocate? Do I want to become that Black Muslim woman?”
Maybe it’s time I give you some backstory. Growing up, I was constantly screamed at for doing things a girl shouldn’t do. I got shut down when I asked for permission to ride a bicycle with my friends. When I dared speak as loudly as the boys, or sat with my legs comfortably open, I was scolded. When I fought back against the bullies pulling my shuku, I was told off. When I questioned why I was the only one doing all the chores while my brothers watched movies, I was silenced.
I grew up hating being a girl. I hated the restrictions. The suffocation. I wanted to grow up just so I could stop being “a girl.”
Then came boarding school in Abuja. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about being a girl anymore—it became about being black. And if there’s one thing teenagers are, it’s cruel. Their meanness became the reason I never pursued the teaching career I once dreamed of. I can’t look back at those years without feeling pain.
I was darker than the average Nigerian and became the target of mockery and bullying, not because of my actions or character, but because of the colour of my skin.
In my own country.
Yearning for freedom. I counted down the days until I could finally graduate and escape that torment.
University wasn’t much different. I studied Geology, a male-dominated field, so I often faced stares or direct confrontations, questioning why a woman like me would dare enter this profession.
Occasionally, someone would advise me to bleach my skin. “It’ll help you get guys,” they’d say. “You’ll look like a big babe.”
After graduation, I got a job and moved to Lagos. Here, no one reminded me of my Blackness. I am often reminded of the minority status of women at the rig or in conferences.
But something else emerged. Something I never dealt with before: being Muslim.
I’d walk into a room, and people would stare at me as if I was there to blow the place up. My colleagues called me “Alhaja” until I had to report them to HR, after repeatedly asking them to call me by my actual name. I didn’t get invited to some hangouts because, according to them, “You don’t drink.” Can’t I eat pizza and laugh with you? Can’t I be part of the group?
I’ve been asked countless times if I’m allowed to do certain things as a Muslim. And even when I tell them, “Yes, I can,” they still give me that skeptical look, as if I don’t know my own faith.
It’s either people are too nice to me because they’re afraid of triggering my so called “suicide bombing limits,” or they’re screaming “Alhaja” at me on the street, like I’m some stereotype they don’t care to understand.
I’m in my own country. The place that’s supposed to be home. But even here, I’m not free. I am still yearning—aching—for freedom from the box society constantly tries to shove me in.
So, why would I want to leave? Why would I go to a place where I would be an even easier target.